Creator (c)
Mar 8, 2015 19:37:04 GMT -5
Post by East on Mar 8, 2015 19:37:04 GMT -5
ME, I'M A CREATOR
With some reluctance, he'd agreed to have Absinthe trained at the ring. The opportunity might not have presented itself had Lark's interruption not made him receptive to the idea. Wasn't he just a sucker for a pretty face? Well, now he was stuck with a commitment and no pretty face to look at, but Grimshaw would recognize the benefits of having someone under his figurative wing. It meant she would owe him for as long as he considered there was a debt to be paid and his time did not come cheap.
He'd not become so deplorable he would send a child to do his dirty work. No, Grimshaw would reserve that for when she was older; and capable, if he had any part of it. For now he would set her about doing mundane chores about the arena, running bets for Tybalt, carrying messages, keeping it as clean. He would put her at Thackery's disposal as well, later on, if the arrangement maintained itself.
But for now, Absinthe had bought her first hour.
In the late afternoon, the scarred dog waited in the fighting pit. The light that pushed through whatever crack it could find had begun to withdraw from the impending night. Grimshaw walked in an idle circle around the edge so his muscles wouldn't get tight as he waited, though he didn't expect to wait long. The scarred mutt was hardly spry with youth, but age would have to fight to keep up with the bastard. A hum vibrated low in his chest, the dull droll that bastardized a cheerful tune - his grandfather's tune, no less - to occupy the silence. Emmy could always bring a room to life with it whereas Grimshaw would only clear them. He had a habit of taking something good and making it bad.
ME, I'M A TAKER